


the unpayable debt that i owed you

by cryptidhearted



Series: hospice [1]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Chronic Illness, Dissociation, Domestic, M/M, Recovery, Seizures, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, brian lives au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidhearted/pseuds/cryptidhearted
Summary: Recovery is a two-way street. He’s learned this lesson himself time and time again. Recovery is clawing your way out of a pit until your nails are bloody and broken and you finally manage to get your footing, and then walking and walking and walking until you get somewhere better. The only problem is that every step feels like you’re about to slip and reaching out only does so much. Recovery is a two-way street because for every time you make the walk up there’s something else ready to show you how to turn around and push you right back down to the part where all you can do is crawl.Doesn’t help, either, he supposes, when you’re hanging around and relying on the thing that fucked your well-being in the first place.





	the unpayable debt that i owed you

**Author's Note:**

> this fic brought to you by the antlers' album "hospice"
> 
> this is an au where brian survives the fall, he and tim are together, and sort of (not really) doing okay. this fic contains dissociation as a coping mechanism, a semi-unreliable narrator by way of tim's perspective exclusively, chronic illness and chronic pain, and attempts at domesticity that may or may not be working out so great. 
> 
>  
> 
> [find me on tumblr!](https://cryptidhearted.tumblr.com/)

The gentle thudding sound from the next room over is what finally gets Tim to wake up.

He lays still, for a moment, and thinks only to count it.

One. _Thud._

Two. _Thud._

Three. _Thud._

Four. _Thud._

He knows the rhythm by heart without having to wait for it, exactly, and as he tilts his head to finally open his eyes and look towards the alarm clock the blinking red of the numbers is polite enough to tell him it’s 4:57 am and the thudding sound keeps going.

Five. _Thud._

Six. _Thud._

Seven. _Thud._

Eight. _Thud._

He remains where he is. Eyes slide shut again, and he nestles his face into the mess of pillows and blankets that he’s gathered up beneath himself. He knows the rhythm by heart and knows he’s counting before the answering sound because he is so very used to waking up in the middle of the night due to a strange noise or two that it almost might be a more effective alarm than the one he actually has set to make sure he doesn’t miss showing up to his fucking job again.

Not that it matters. He’s supposed to be up at 6:30 for work and the thudding sound coming from the other room right next to where his head is could just as likely be the sound of his brain knocking about on the inside of his skull and telling him he’s not thinking clearly anymore.

Tim breathes out slowly, feeling the blanket warm itself against his face with the heat of his exhale. He doesn’t prop himself up, nor bother to move very much, the only motion being his hand curling into a fist and pressing against the wall to feel the noise instead of hear it and prove it exists outside of him.

Fifteen. _Thud._

Sixteen. _Thud._

Seventeen. _Thud._

Eighteen. _Thud._

The vibration is gentle and persistent against his knuckles as he holds his hand there, and Tim knows the cause and the effect all in one movement of his head against the pillow. He shuts his eyes and counts.

Twenty-four. _Thud._

Twenty-five. _Thud._

Twenty-six. _Thud._

Twenty-seven. _Thud._

With his eyes shut and his knuckles pressed against the wall, Tim takes another deep breath.

“Brian?” He calls, gentle, cautious, tired.

The noise stops all at once.

This is the part where he should get up and start the journey to the next room over. This apartment is not a big one, nor is it a comfortable one, and he knows that Brian’s door right next to his is not locked, because it is never locked. His bedroom door is never locked, either, despite the warning signs. Tim pictures it for himself as he keeps his fist pressed against the wall, imagines himself standing up and crossing the furrow in the carpet from his bed on the floor to the doorway, imagines how he’d take a moment to steady himself in the hallway and then peek in and ask Brian very softly if he’s having trouble sleeping again even though he already knows the answer, because he’s having trouble sleeping again too.

And then he wonders in passing if Brian’s been thinking about the same thing as he nestles his face back into the pillow, his hand lowering from the elevated position to scrape his knuckles on the drywall as it rests on the bed beside his face.

He halfway knows the answers, he guesses, picturing himself standing in the hallway in his pajamas and rubbing at the scruff on his jawline. Brian’s not sleeping again because Tim’s not sleeping again because Brian’s not sleeping again and it’s an echo chamber between the two of them, a feedback loop of growing static punctuated by the soft noise of Brian’s fist rapping out a steady, constant rhythm against the wall where Tim’s pillow presses into the corner and Tim wedges himself when he’s trying to hide.

Tim stays quiet.

He breathes in and out on a steady rhythm to match the sound of the thuds against the wall that aren’t there anymore and tells himself not to bother starting to count again when it picks up.

One. _Thud._

Two. _Thud._

Three. _Thud._

\---

His alarm goes off at precisely 6:30 and Tim shuts it off in the same instant, like he’d really been sleeping instead of moving vaguely in and out of a state of unconsciousness.

This is when he picks himself up off the mattress on the floor, rubs his face and forces the sleep from his eyes. The routine is habit by now, since he’s finally managed to keep a steady job that can support the two of them and their admittedly sparse eating habits while they both work to try and find their footing and deal with knowing that they still have to look over their shoulder every time their back isn’t to a wall.

Shower.

Shave.

Toothpaste has never stopped tasting like shit.

Dress decently, be grateful you don’t have to learn how to tie a tie just yet. (How different from a noose could it be, really?)

Tim leaves his pajamas in a heap on the floor and leaves his door wide open as he goes to the kitchen. Half an hour until he needs to leave for work, and long enough for him to put together something to make sure the both of them don’t forget to eat today. Stray ingredients and microwave meals do not a feast make, but he’s been capable enough at putting together a sandwich since first grade. Wheat bread (an attempt to be healthy), mayo, turkey, shredded cheese (cheaper than sliced), spinach (a benefit of a steady job). Water bottles refilled from the tap and tucked into the back of the fridge to stay cold. Tim cuts the crusts off out of habit.

Glancing down the hallway, he half expects the tapping sound to start up again, but he knows Brian, and he knows that if he finally got to sleep then even the sound of Tim’s alarm going off to get him up for work wasn’t going to be enough to actually wake him up.

There is, of course, the matter of making sure Brian eats something.

He’d be tempted to fish the page from yesterday out of the garbage where it ended up by the time he got home, but between cleaning out the fridge and trying to make something worth eating from the lack of ability to go to the grocery store he doubts they’re still in good condition, and crumpled paper and old marker is a shitty enough metaphor on it’s own without old coffee stains running over them.

With the sandwiches tucked into the fridge, Tim steps back towards his bedroom and the shoddy (pre-owned) desk shoved into the corner under the window, across from the mattress on the floor. A blank sheet is pulled from a stack of lined paper and he reaches for the marker in an old coffee-cup that he keeps meaning to put back into the kitchen. He uncaps it and looks down at the page, placing the tip against it and feeling grateful, in that moment, that this one hasn’t dried up yet.

 _Food in the Fridge._  
_Don’t forget To Eat._  
_Be Home at 5._

He should add more, he thinks. Dot his I with a heart or doodle a little smiley face at the bottom the way that his therapists did when he was still young enough and stupid enough to appreciate them. It feels condescending though, and as his marker remains pressed against the number he debates if signing it would even matter. Who else would it be?

Instead, he sets the marker down on the desk and enters the hallway again, kneeling to pick up the push-pin left behind and then standing to press the paper at the right height for it to be eye-level when Brian decides to leave his bedroom. If the routine still holds, then he expects he’ll come home to the same sight as always.

Tim stops there in the small hallway for a second, looking to the paper pinned to the wall and remaining still as his eyes drift towards the door across from it. He breathes in and closes his eyes for a moment.

He should—be doing more. There has to be more that he can do. He’s not doing enough. Not trying hard enough. Neither of them sleep enough, neither of them eat enough, and there’s still the awful lingering knowledge that this peace is fabricated because Tim _knows_ it’s fabricated. His hand presses against the door, palm first, fingers splayed out, and he keeps his eyes shut as he bows his head to press against the doorframe. Is Brian still asleep? Did he sleep at all? Should he open the door? Knock, first, to make sure? The sounds stopped at some point last night and then never started again and Tim assumes that’s because Brian finally fell asleep or the repetitive motion just stopped helping and the knot in his chest gathers and tightens as he tries to think of what more he can be trying to do. There’s got to be more. There has to be more. There has to—

He withdraws from the door in order to cover his mouth and cough into his palm.

He’d stay here all day if he could. Sit down and close his eyes and just wait for Brian to be ready, like he’s done before, like he’s sure he’ll end up doing again and again. But if he doesn’t work, their already sparse eating habits become starving habits instead, and that doesn’t do either of them any good.

Tim breathes out, pretends he wasn’t holding his breath when he coughs again, and turns his back on the doorway. He’ll let Brian sleep. He knows the routine. It won’t change, because they’re comfortable in it.

Back to his room.

Keep the door wide open as he sits on the mattress on the floor in order to put his boots on.

Pick up his cigarettes from the desk.

Pick up his pills from the bathroom and tuck them into his pocket beside the cigarettes.

Keys from beside the front door.

His hand rests on the cool metal of the doorknob and Tim glances over his shoulder to the dark of the apartment, hearing the hum of the various electronics and the sound of the fan over the living room continuing to make some noise. He knows what he’ll see if he looks towards the darkened hallway illuminated only by the light of the bathroom spilling out into it, and so he does not look. A chill down his spine is enough.

He opens the door and steps out into the warmth of the rising sun, locking the apartment shut behind him and digging his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket. Tim places the cigarette between his teeth, lights it, and runs a hand through his hair as he moves down the stairs. He feels eyes on the back of his head, names it one of the neighbors looking out their bedroom window at the sound of a little bit of commotion and heads towards his car.

Brian will be fine, he reminds himself. They’re keeping up the prescriptions and Tim has been able to get him to go to the doctor’s office with him enough times that he’s walking on his own again. Dealing with his demons again. There’s a spike of guilt through him that’s hard to ignore—but he reassures himself in the same instant that things are fine. Brian’s not wasting away or actively hurting himself and they both know the routine. Tim works, Brian handles things at the apartment, they stay home together and start feeling better. The shitty things are in the past and it’s the two of them again, at arm’s length.

Something looks out the window from the apartment to him down on the street, and Tim calls it nothing but a trick of the light.

\---

It is 5:02 in the evening when Tim makes it back to the apartment, clutching a bag of fast-food takeout against his elbow and a cigarette between his teeth as he fishes for his keys in his pocket. He’s halfway through getting the right one before the door opens and he drops the keys with a start as Brian stands in the doorway before him.

“Hey.” He says as Tim kneels to pick up the dropped keys.

“Hey.” Tim answers in the muffled voice of speaking with something between his teeth, handing over the greasy bag for Brian to peek into as he stands up straight. It’s food most similar to their college-time fare, he knows, and not the most healthy thing for them to be eating, but work was hard and Tim just wanted to have something faster than it would take to make it at home. Bad habit, but life is short.

Brian lets him pass by only after he extinguishes his cigarette and drops the butt in the ash tray tucked against the welcome mat, the door closing behind him and locking as Tim hangs up his keys on the ring by the door. Brian walks with him to the table, setting the bag of food down on it as Tim moves past him to put his shoes back in his bedroom, dropping his cigarettes and lighter back on the desk and fishing his pills out of his pocket. He returns, barefoot, dry swallowing the correct dose and putting the medicine back on the bathroom counter without bothering to stop.

When he returns, Brian has already set the (identical) meals out on their small table. The sound of the television in the living room becomes a noise that Tim is only just now aware of, and he glances towards their rickety tv-set to see some evening news giving updates on current events. For a moment, there’s the temptation to turn a comedy on instead.

“Show me your teeth.” Brian’s voice cuts through his thinking, and Tim blinks as he looks back.

“Do you need to see them again?” Tim’s reply is not annoyed or exasperated or—anything, really.

“Yeah.” Brian’s voice is somewhere between firm and cautious and Tim does not blame him as he approaches, not reaching for him. Speech isn’t enough. “Show me.”

He obliges as he stops in front of Brian, an itch in the back of his head telling him he should be kneeling by now. He bares his teeth, and Brian reaches forward to put a thumb against his lip and pull it up to see better. Tim shuts his eyes as he feels a probing, cautious touch confirm the only sharp teeth left in his mouth are his canines, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary to be found there even when the thumb presses against the tip of one of them.

Brian withdraws.

“Better?”

“Mm.”

This is an added part to the routine that Tim knows exists only because Brian knows more about Masky than Tim does. It doesn’t tell him much other than what Brian has spent the day thinking about, and even then—surface level. It might just be habit. He doesn’t remember enough about the times the separation from himself was strong enough to matter, and what he does know is everything he’d learned from the videos Jay had posted. Something feral and angry, something aggressive and wild that Brian had spent a lot of time with. Tim doesn’t envy him that.

Yet _fear_ isn’t exactly what Tim would call the cause of this addition; Brian has never seemed scared around him. Not _by_ him, at least, Brian isn’t scared of _him_ when the fear does set in, and Tim isn’t about to start a conversation by asking _Hey, you know how I sometimes get super weird when my psychosis acts up and I completely separate from reality because of that thing that basically destroyed us both? Mind telling me more about that? I don’t think Jay’s videos were good enough._

He sighs through his nose as they both make to sit at the table.

“How was work?” Brian’s mouth is full as the conversation starts, and Tim’s response is a snort and a shrug.

“Work. I might get a raise in a while, but. I’ve had better bosses.”

“You thinking about looking for another job?”

“I don’t want to risk it just yet, honestly. Staying put would look better on my resume and I already have to be picky about what I put there.”

“Steady employment over better employment.”

“You got it.”

“How’s that music degree working out for you?” Brian’s question is lazy and teasing and Tim feels heat in his chest as he snickers, shaking his head.

“I’ll let you know as soon as the passion project gets anywhere.”

“Still waiting to hear any of it.”

So they settle into it again. Conversation over dinner like they’re back in Brian’s house, in college, and like things haven’t changed. This is what Tim likes best about the two of them being together again, the times where things feel normal and easy even when he knows for a fact it isn’t going to last. Something will crack down the middle of the two of them again sooner or later, and it’s hanging over his head like a cloud even as he’s glad to see Brian grin and speak and eat and _breathe._ The fries are over-salted, and he doesn’t even care.

They eat together. They talk together, skirting carefully around topics that shouldn’t be discussed the way people walk carefully around broken glass. Those are saved for later, shards of a broken plate wrapped up in cloth with hopes that it would maybe be put back together later.

With a lack of dishes to clean, it all ends up in the trash when they’re finished; Tim sees the crumpled evidence of the purple-marker note that he had pinned up before he left and leans into the knowledge that Brian has, at least, not been starving himself when he opens the fridge to get the two of them some water bottles. He lingers there slightly too long, listening to the sound of Brian’s feet across the linoleum and carpet, to the creak of the springs in the old couch in front of the television as he stretches out after he sits. It’s habit to track where he is, and Tim can’t be sure yet if it’s a good thing or not.

The news drones on, sound in the background to fill the silence because they’re still not the best at a conversation without something else going on, and Tim knocks the door shut with his hip.

He feels good, he realizes.

It’s a comfortable feeling gathering at the base of his skull instead of a threatening headache as he moves from the kitchen to the living room and onto the couch to one side of Brian. A fuzzy, welcoming warmth lingers in the tips of his fingers and trickles lazily down the length of his spine as he hands over the other water bottle and makes himself comfortable. There’s the slight itch for another bit of nicotine that reminds him his cigarettes are in the other room, but he elects to ignore it; he’s promised Brian he won’t be smoking inside anymore, and the cramped balcony isn’t good when compared to the comforting presence of another body next to his.

Well, next to. They’re not exactly close, sitting on opposite ends of the couch and leaning against either armrest.

Tim gathers his knees up against his chest and leans onto his elbow, focusing in on the sound of Brian reaching for the remote on the coffee table and the gentle sounds of the remote flicking through channels until he settles on one thing or another. This is better. This is good.

He feels good.

Work was annoying and obnoxious but being home with Brian is like things haven’t changed, like things are the same as they were always supposed to be and he has the fortune of being comfortable with the man he loves again. They’re warm and safe and well-fed and comfortable. They’re not in a shack in the woods, not prowling with a pipe clutched in one fist through a burned out building, not waking up in the middle of nowhere with his face pressed into a pile of leaves and mud, not drowning their way through a dying grove, not antagonizing or memorializing through videos on the internet, not falling from a ledge with a wrench to the face or risking a shot to the gut or stabbing a man in the throat with such intense fear that it won’t be enough or or or or

oh.

Tim leans into the sensation of floating instead.

His arms are feeling like they’re not there anymore, even as he feels his palm under his chin. He knows what this “good feeling” is now, and knows he should not be pressing himself into it—but he does, despite himself, because that makes it easier to hide from the guilt and the ghost when he can shut his eyes and float away. The comfortable sensation stretches down to his legs and there is a heaviness in his chest that seems to anchor him down to the couch as he relaxes.

Things are good. Everything is fine.

“Tim?” Brian’s voice breaks through the sensation, and Tim is slow to open his eyes, because he well and truly does not want to.

He lifts his head in lieu of responding, and Brian is watching him with an expression that is impossible to read, his jaw set, and his eyes locked on Tim’s face.

“Still with me?” He questions, and Tim takes note of the way his fingers have curled into the fabric of the couch.

“I’m still here.” Tim replies, and his words come out sleepier than he intended them to, half-slurred and half-spoken as the comfortable sensation of floating is overridden by the maddening feeling of weariness dragging his bones down into the raggedy old couch.

“Show me your teeth.” Brian says, and Tim obeys.

\---

The two-bedroom apartment rental agreement is in Tim’s name. They moved in together because when it came down to it, neither of them could bear the thought of being alone, and who else would understand everything they’ve been through? Or. Something like that. Tim rented a two bedroom after his house burned down because he finally had another job and Brian needed somewhere to sleep that wasn’t the back of Tim’s car and the hospital wasn’t going to serve the same purpose as a hotel.

His mattress is on the floor instead of on a stand because he couldn’t afford one yet and it seemed unnecessary with the way stockpiling money is doing them more good than spending it would. Tim tells himself it’s because he’s being shrewd, not because he’s prepared to lose his job due to one bad day at any given moment. It’s shoved up into the corner because when he bought Brian a mattress too he needed it to be close enough to the wall that he’d hear when Brian knocked, because recovery from a broken back wasn’t going to happen in a day and Tim wasn’t going to abandon him again.

One. _Thud._

Two. _Thud._

Three. _Thud._

Four. _Thud._

He counts before the noise hits because this is the usual sound, Brian knocking his head or his fist or his leg against the wall, to the side instead of right against where Tim’s head and pillows would be because the repetition makes him feel better, or he feels the need to be moving, or something that Tim can’t be sure of because as much as he knows what Brian is going through he also knows that they’re still different people.

It’s become something of a lullaby on the nights it does happen, a rhythm that’s familiar and if not welcome, at least better than listening to ringing static and screaming.

So he’s used to it.

He’s used to it, up until the time the familiar series of thuds becomes sharp, banging, angry sounds instead of the almost-but-not-quite heartbeat that Tim is familiar with, waking him from an unsteady sleep better than the sunlight streaming through the blinds of his window do. It’s right next to his head, rough and banging and groggily, Tim wonders what it is that Brian is seeing.

Words from the other room. Half-audible, coupled with a gasp and a refusal and a curse and Tim recognizes the series of sounds as well as he remembers what Brian’s smile used to look like. Not seeing. Feeling.

A body-shaking cough comes from the other side of the wall, followed by the sound of an animal in pain, and Tim sighs as he picks himself up off the floor.

Recovery is a two-way street. He’s learned this lesson himself time and time again. Recovery is clawing your way out of a pit until your nails are bloody and broken and you finally manage to get your footing, and then walking and walking and walking until you get somewhere better. The only problem is that every step feels like you’re about to slip and reaching out only does so much. Recovery is a two-way street because for every time you make the walk up there’s something else ready to show you how to turn around and push you right back down to the part where all you can do is crawl.

Doesn’t help, either, he supposes, when you’re hanging around and relying on the thing that fucked your well-being in the first place.

He wasn’t really sleeping anymore, anyway.

Brian’s calling for help without wanting to be helped by slamming his hands against the wall like that, and though Tim knows he isn’t wanted in this moment (he’s learned the lesson before) it’s sheer stubbornness that means he gets up, pushes his door open, grabs the water from the fridge and the pills left on the bathroom counter, and doesn’t bother to knock on Brian’s door before pushing it open.

“Go away.”

Tim was expecting it, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Brian’s snap was slightly muffled where the lower half of his face is pressed into the blankets and pillows gathered up beneath him, his body twisted in what Tim recognizes as an attempt to get his body to stop hurting when he can’t stand up yet. His shirt is gathered up around his abdomen and as Tim approaches without turning the light on it’s easy enough for him to picture the mess of scars and bruises that were still not fading even after enough time spent trying to get away from them. He kneels as Brian slams his fist against the wall again with an audible curse, and he reaches one hand out for him—

“I thought I told you to _go away_ ,” Brian hisses, wincing against another cough, and Tim shakes his head.

“Can’t sleep when you’re about to punch a hole in the wall next to my head, Brian.” He says his name purposefully and reaches out with the hand not clutching the water or the pill bottle for the same reason, gentle as he takes hold of the wrist of the fist pressed against the wall and pulls it away gently. Brian jerks under his touch but does not wrench himself away. Not yet, at least.

He doesn’t say anything else, either, and Tim will count that as a small victory.

“Just your back?” The question is gentle, and Brian doesn’t reply again as Tim eyes scraped knuckles and wishes he’d woken up sooner and thought to bring the bandages stuffed under the sink. The wall’s going to look ugly by the time the angle’s right for the rising sunlight to hit it.

He sighs through his nose and gathers his patience up again.

No, if it were just his back, Brian wouldn’t be pounding on the wall again. They’ve found how to deal with that in ways that means Tim doesn’t have to intervene. There’s a pillow on the couch made specifically to handle the backpain and one of the ones gathered up under Brian’s head has the same purpose for while he’s in bed; this is, Tim guesses, tangentially related to the injury and more than likely related to the infection.

That, at least, tells Tim what his priorities are.

Tim releases Brian’s wrist very gently, sitting down by the mattress on the floor and opening the pill bottle. He pours two out into his hand with a rattling sound, holding them gently before he moves to undo the cap on the water bottle by holding it between his teeth and twisting the bottle. Brian scoffs at the movement, and Tim considers that a good sign, too, that he’s anchored enough to know what’s going on around him.

Brian doesn’t lift his hand to do anything other than press against the wall, so Tim doesn’t offer him the bottle and the pills. Instead, he shifts closer, helping Brian sit up enough to prop his head up (grateful when he leans on him, like a warmth in the pit of his stomach and relief on his shoulders) and going through the motions to help him take the medicine. It’ll chase away the static. Ease some of the pain. Won’t make Brian like him again through the haze of it all, but Tim’s alright with being a caregiver over a partner if the circumstance needs it.

“Hate me for this later.” He says, and if Brian’s about to protest, he doesn’t give him the chance. Tim loops his arm under Brian’s armpits and hoists him up unsteadily, listening to the taller man snarl in his frustration and lean harder on Tim than usual. There’s the moment of wondering if those shaky hands are about to go to his throat with the way his fingers twitch, but Brian doesn’t react beyond the utterance of frustration through a clenched jaw. He tries to walk with him when he moves, and that’s an encouraging sign; this isn’t the back pain, this is the chronic pain and the fighting against drifting into the static and the noise. Pain is more physical than anything else could be.

It’s half-dragging and half-carrying as Tim pulls Brian out of his bedroom and into the hallway, across to the bathroom with a fumbled flick of the light switch and unsteadily helping Brian sit down on the lid of the toilet.

“When did you stop listening to me?” Brian’s breathy voice comes from just behind him as Tim is leaning over to start the hot water, and Tim glances back in his direction for a moment. He can’t tell if it’s intended to be malicious or not, and the way Brian’s jaw clenches doesn’t tell him anything other than the fact he’s hurting.

He doesn’t have an answer, exactly. Even if it is a god damn stupid question.

“Are you sure it was _me_ listening to you?” He replies, extending a hand under the faucet to feel the threshold where the water gets warm enough to soothe but not too hot to be uncomfortable. The goal is to help him relax and make the muscle pain go away, not cause him more pain—even if the way Brian is shifting uncomfortably against him tells him that might be a rather pointless goal to begin with.

“It was still you.” The matter-of-fact tone in Brian’s voice is no comfort as Tim reaches forward to plug the bathtub and let the warm water fill the tub as steam emanates from it.

“I’m not sure about that.” Tim steps around Brian and makes to turn the bathroom fan on despite the fact the door has been left wide open. Fill the room with more white noise besides the conversation that won’t last unless Brian keeps it going, and Tim leans back against the wall to watch the bathtub.

“It was.” Brian is insistent, and Tim doesn’t have a reply. “It did things that you would all the time. Had that same look in its eyes you get all the time, too, the excited look of yours, I recognized it all. It was you. And it listened to me. It wouldn’t have done that if it weren’t you.”

Empty words that drift into some form of silence as the warm water raises, and Brian keeps shifting, trying to find the right position that would ease the pain and deflect the noise at once, like some restless bird about to take flight through the bathroom door.

The thought makes him wince.

“It wasn’t me.” Tim mutters, and he wishes for smoke in his lungs instead of steam.

“Then why did it keep coming back to me?” Brian replies, that same unyielding tone of voice.

Tim doesn’t answer.

“Then why isn’t it still here?” Brian pushes, and Tim grits his teeth.

“Why?” He fixates his eyes on Brian’s face, moving past him to turn off the water after he snaps. “You want it back more than me?”

“That’s not what I meant, Tim.”

“I know what you meant.”

And the conversation falls silent.

As much as Tim wants to retreat to his bedroom and wedge himself in the corner, leave Brian to fend for himself, he doesn’t. They don’t talk as Tim is gentle about helping him undress; shirt pulled off as carefully as possible to not risk jostling old wounds, tossed over the sink as Tim lets Brian lean on him to have the extra support to pull his pants and underwear down. The fabric is pushed away and they move together in tandem as Brian, clutching onto Tim, eases himself into the shallow, warm water, Tim helping him lean back comfortably until most of his body is submerged and the heat of it is finally allowed to get to work.

“I’ll take care of your clothes.” Tim mutters after Brian lets go of him. Brian does not reply.

They don’t close the doors inside their apartment. It might be a bad habit, and it’s not always the best for privacy, but it also means that there’s the ability to see every little thing going on from whatever angle they make themselves comfortable at. Tim picks up Brian’s pajama pants and underwear from the floor, gathers up the discarded shirt draped over the sink, and does not look back at Brian as he goes the short distance from the bathroom to Brian’s bedroom. He can feel eyes on the back of his head as he does and, in this moment, knows it’s Brian watching him, but it doesn’t make the sensation any less uncomfortable. There is the urge that is always there to run, wedge himself in somewhere and hide, find the forest (so far away, now, they’re not even in Alabama anymore) and make himself comfortable among the trees where nobody could find him, let alone Brian’s wandering eyes.

He drops the pajamas into the hamper, makes note that they’ll need to take a trip to the laundromat soon, and stands in the open closet doors just out of sight of Brian as he presses his forehead against the wall again.

He wants to, but he won’t. He knows better than to run away now.

Pull yourself together. Move on.

The familiar sensation of lightness in his limbs settles in, static gathering at the nape of his neck.

He knows they’re not going anywhere today. He doesn’t have any hours scheduled and Brian’s not going to be able to make a trip much more complicated than the bedroom to the bathroom without more help today, and so the end result is planning out the schedule in his head: When Brian’s finished Tim will help him get dressed, move him to the couch, make him breakfast. Tim will shower while Brian eats, they’ll pick some shitty movie that came out in the long stretch of empty time to watch and they’ll be silent, they’ll be together, they’ll be partners again.

It’ll be good. It’ll be fine.

Tim wipes the sleep from his eyes and scratches at the cool lump of radio feedback that has gathered at the back of his neck until it vanishes, willing the heaviness in his chest to weigh him down enough that lifting his feet won’t feel like he’s drifting away again.

The clothes he picks out don’t matter, he knows, but he ends up grabbing for whatever he knows to be the most comfortable anyway.

“Tim? Still with me?”

The sound of movement in water and Brian’s voice, and Tim shakes his head, leans into the heaviness instead of the drifting. He inhales slowly, exhales slower, and turns on his heel to return to the bathroom.

“I’m still here.” He says as he passes through the doorway, and he sets the folded clothing down on the counter, leaning against it and looking down at Brian in the tub as the cabinet’s knobs dig into his hip. “Sorry.”

“Thought you’d wandered off.” Brian lifts a hand to rub at his cheeks, putting it through his hair and sinking into the water a little bit more. Tim recognizes the signs that the hot water and the medicine is working out; though Brian’s movements are still somewhat stiff, he’s at least _moving_ , and the edge in his voice has faded somewhat. It’s not gone, but it’s better, and better is the most they can hope for. “C’mere.” A hand is placed on the edge of the tub, palm out.

Tim doesn’t step forward. Brian’s response is to gesture towards himself instead, and Tim furrows his brows. A part of him wants to deny it on reflex—but then, he’s never been very good at denying Brian anything.

“You need something?” He questions, shifting nearer. “I can go get the water again, or the pills, or…”

“No.” Brian keeps his hand extended. “Sit with me?”

It’s a question, not a demand, and the heaviness in Tim’s shoulders only makes it easier to sit down on the floor of the bathroom beside the tub, crossing his legs and reaching without thinking for the offered hand.

This is the closest they’ll get to an apology right now. That’s what the language is; when they don’t sleep together, or touch much beyond the times Tim’s dragging Brian into the bathroom or helping him around when the pain is too intense, this sort of thing qualifies. Brian threads his fingers through Tim’s own and Tim focuses in on the sensation, his skin warmed by the water and the inviting steam that emanates from the tub. The static fingers crawling up the back of his skull dig in as he shuts his eyes, leaning back against the wall and instead lingering on the feeling of Brian’s hand in his own. It roots him better than the cigarettes and the pills are going to do, gives him a place to ground himself and hold on tight and catch his breath.

This is the closest to an apology they’re _supposed_ to get, and yet—

“M’sorry.” It comes so quietly that Tim thinks he might’ve imagined it, dark eyes opening to move back to Brian’s face. The other man’s expression is somewhere between frustrated and tired, but the harshness in his voice is gone as he presses his cheek against the porcelain of the tub in order to make proper eye contact with Tim.

“For?”

“You know what for.”

“Then you know that it doesn’t matter.” Tim replies with a shrug. His eyes drift away from Brian and to the wall above the toilet, fixating on a nick in the paint. “I thought I was supposed to be spending all my time apologizing to you.”

“Would ‘thank you’ make you feel better instead?”

“Maybe.”

“Thank you.”

“Least I can do.”

Brian squeezes his hand. Tim sits still, silent.

The thing in their apartment shifts at the end of the hallway and neither of them acknowledge it when it moves past the open doorway.

\---

Tim still finds binary and code tucked away in pockets when he brings their clothes to the laundromat on his way home from work. They’re fragments and pieces rather than anything concrete, numbers and letters written in various colors and levels of dried-up ink, the occasional water stain or smear of food that was squirreled away into a bedroom instead of eaten at the kitchen table. He folds the notes very gently every time, tucks them into his back pocket to either decode or put back or forget about later, and notes every time that Brian’s handwriting has changed since college.

There’s a lot of things that could be chalked up to, of course, because between the brain injuries (because that’s the right way to refer to it, right?) they’ve sustained and the physical damage Brian’s still dealing with it makes sense that he’d have to be more careful with how he writes, or they’ll be more scrawled out in different ways with whatever Brian could get his hands on.

Codebreaking has never been in his skillset, and with the fact Brian keeps them hidden in his own pockets and probably around his bedroom, Tim has assumed time and time again he doesn’t really want him to know what they say. It’s for the best, he supposes as he moves the load of pants from the washer to the dryer and drags up the bag full of shirts to start the process over again. It wasn’t his job to break the codes in the first place; that was for the ghost, for Jay. Staring down at numbers scrawled over an old receipt he remembers lying in a single bed in a motel, pretending to be asleep with his eyes fixated on the opposite wall as Jay muttered to himself about numbers and codes, running through solution after solution until he found something with the video still playing on repeat in the background, frame by frame.

His head hurts.

Tim folds the receipt very gently lengthwise and then across, tucking it into his pocket with the other one he found written on a notecard when going through the jeans. He expects he’ll find another one before the day is done, or forgot one that Brian will find later, washed out and bleeding it’s colors into the rest of the paper. A part of him regrets never asking Jay to teach him how to break these codes; the basic ones, at least. Binary is entry-level, isn’t it? And he knows what the ones in the videos meant, if he went back. Could you work backwards with code and still make it the same as what the intended message was in the first place? He lifts a hand to wipe his face again and shifts his weight, leaning against the dryer and closing his eyes.

The laundromat is mostly empty at this point in the evening. It’s a block away from the apartment and, reasonably, they could walk, but Tim stuffed the laundry into the back of his car before he left for work and left it there for the day, figuring that it was better for him to combine his errands than pretend there was nothing else to do. The headache has gathered behind his eyes and he breathes slow to guard against it, trying to remember what else there was for him to handle doing before he got back. Brian’s still limping from the episode the other day, and even if Tim’s relatively sure he can handle doing things on his own right now he’s hesitant to ask him to do much other than pick up after himself if he gets anything he needs when Tim’s not around. There’s—dinner. Making dinner when he gets home.

A rushing sound has gathered in his ears, drowning out the drone of the washing machine and the dryer.

He went grocery shopping yesterday when he was sure Brian could be left alone for more than a couple hours again. It was easier than going to work, because going to work when Brian still needed help felt like leaving him behind, even if he knew he’d get the call if there was a problem. So there’s food at home and he doesn’t need to go pick something up, he can just take the clothes and go home from here. Figure out what to make when he gets there. Codebreaking is the kind of mental challenge that keeps you thinking and sharp, right? That’s why Brian likes it? He got a cryptography book for him for Christmas, one year, and he’d looked so happy, did that book have any of the answers in it? The static in his head reaches back, long, slender fingers digging into his scalp.

The dryer beeps, Tim goes through the motions of pulling the clothes out and shoving them back into the same sack that they came to the laundromat in. He and Brian will end up sorting through and folding them together after dinner’s taken care of, but it hardly matters if the wrong clothes get handed over; Brian’s only a few inches taller than him, and the fit isn’t that bad if the wrong ones end up in his closet. Mechanically, he pushes the first sack away and grabs for the second one, fixing it before the washer finishes and making to cover his mouth with his wrist when he coughs. What do they even have left at home? He just went grocery shopping yesterday. There’s got to be something, but he can’t remember off the top of his head. Maybe Brian would have an idea. He could text him. Another cough, and the washer beeps at him.

Last load. Wait for the dryer. He could text him.

He coughs, wincing when he does, and sighing through his nose.

The drive home isn’t much better. There is no night sky even in this suburb, but the overcast clouds are more determined than ever to stop any sight of the sunset. They’re expecting rain, he knows, and maybe storms later in the evening. He’s not looking forward to that.

It’s 6:31 pm when Tim makes it up the stairs with two bags of clean laundry slung over his shoulders, bowing his head forward to cough and fishing for his keys; the door opens again before he can unlock it, Brian leaning heavily on the doorway and giving Tim that slight grin that makes his heart flutter.

“Hey.” He says.

“Hey.” Tim answers, adjusting his grip.

“Need some help?”

“Sure you can carry it?”

“It’s not that bad.”

Brian reaches, and Tim obliges with some reluctance, handing over the laundry bag of shirts and adjusting the way he holds the sack full of pants to get inside without having to drag it on the floor. His partner drops the shirts down by the couch, and Tim tries to ignore the way he’s still hobbling, his movements gentle and careful, like anything too swift or too wide would aggravate the pain again and either send him to the floor or worse. Tim watches him intently despite himself as he follows along, setting the other bag down beside the first one.

“I can sort through these.” Brian says as he steps around the edge of the couch, sitting down and glancing back up to Tim. That grin remains, and the flutter in Tim’s chest amplifies. “Gives me something to do.”

“Alright.” Tim covers his mouth to cough. “I’ll do dinner, then?”

“Sounds good to me.”

The tv clicks on again as Brian reaches for the remote, and Tim hands him the pillow to settle against his back without really thinking of it, helping him adjust until he’s comfortable enough and can get his hands on the laundry bags. Folding and sorting is also something Tim’s never been very good at, so he’s not gonna stop Brian from volunteering. The background noise of the night is what sounds like some kind of kid’s movie, and it’s at least better than the news.

“I keep finding things in your pockets.” Tim says, suddenly, while his back is to the living room and his face is in the cabinet trying to figure out what would be good enough for dinner with whatever they’ve got in the house. He could’ve _sworn_ he went grocery shopping yesterday, why are the cabinets so empty? “What do you want me to do with those?”

“They’re not important.” There’s the familiar sound of rustling clothes, metal buttons on denim jeans clicking against the top of the coffee table as Brian works. “You can toss them if you want, I keep meaning to.”

“I’m not gonna toss out the master key to an entirely new code if I get rid of that receipt, am I?” He found the chicken breasts he was looking for in the back of the fridge, furrowing his brows and eyeing the date with a small frown. It seems sooner than he expected it to be. He doesn’t usually bother buying less than three days out, and yet this one says it goes bad tomorrow. Bad luck, he guesses. Misread the dates.

The spinach, at least, is where he remembers it being.

“Nah. I have it memorized. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” Tim glances over his shoulder to the couch as he sets the package of chicken on the counter. He watches, for a moment, the steady movement of Brian’s shoulders as he shifts, trying to detect any indication that the other’s in more pain than he’s willing to admit. Covering his cough again, he’s slow to turn back towards the cabinets, digging around for wherever the spices had ended up stashed. Pepper, salt, garlic powder… they’re out of oregano. Wouldn’t that have been on the grocery list? Did he just forget?

Fuck.

Make do with what you have.

“Do you think you could teach me some of those sometime?”

“What, the codes?”

“Yeah. They look interesting.”

“Sure.”

Easy enough process, he’s done it enough times to not have to look at the recipe for the timing. Preheat the oven, cut the chicken after it’s seasoned because he prefers smaller pieces and they work for salad when paired up with the spinach, get a pan because searing the chicken first makes it seem fancier even if it usually does just end up overcooked because he still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing—

The static in his head is building.

He does his best to ignore it. Brian’s still sorting and folding behind him as he clicks the gas on for the stove, the children’s cartoon background noise drowned out by the sound in his ears. Pan, butter. Knife. He can still hear the clicking sound of jeans being adjusted on the table while Brian identifies and puts them away with all the ceremony of someone who’s worked a retail job more than once in their life and Tim sets to work, feeling the urge to cough gather in the back of his throat.

Not on the food.

He turns his head and coughs into his shoulder, thinking that’s enough. Except it isn’t. Except, the urge doesn’t go away and only becomes worse, his hands leaving the knife and the cutting board immediately to step back and cover his mouth—

knife clatters to the floor, nicks his foot in the process, you idiot, you idiot, you’re going to lose a fucking toe if you do that again, when did he take his shoes off?

The cough is harsh and body-shaking, an intense pain in his chest as he gasps for breath and chokes on the inhale. The static bubble bursts like ice water moving down his spine and his hand goes from his mouth to his throat. Tim grasps at it regardless, digging his fingers into the flesh of his neck and trying desperately to claw onto something

hands hands hands on his shoulders on his arms on his cheek brian it’s brian brian reaching for him brian trying to see his eyes his teeth? his teeth? don’t look at those again it’s not coming back it’s not coming back it’s me please trust me please please trust me again please brian please

speaking speaking but far away speaking but too far away please trust me again

By the time he drops to his knees he can’t breathe, and from there the drop to the floor seems short and easy as his body locks up. The hands on him guide him to the ground, stop him from falling face first into the linoleum and breaking his nose in the process, but he is aware only of the unsteady touch digging into his shoulders as his body tenses and convulses and the seizure sets in all at once, the grace of a freight train slamming into a brick wall as Tim gags on his own drool and gasps for breath.

sound too distant too far away it wasn’t me it isn’t me it isn’t going to be me vision too blurred to make out solid shapes, just a world of static and sound, is it here? is it here? is it here? it wasn’t me it wasn’t me please trust me again it isn’t me is it here? is it here again? did it find us? did it find you? can you hear thunder?

brian

brian it isn’t me

i don’t want it to be me it isn’t me don’t let it be me i’m done with that it isn’t happening anymore it’s done it’s done it’s hands, gentle hands guiding sideways i was doing fine i was getting better soft fabric under his head when he’s pushed onto his side, still can’t breathe but better can’t breathe but better still hard still coughing still choking is it here? is it here? please don’t let it be me again it’s not me please trust me again brian please trust me again please please please i’m begging you don’t let it be me again

dark.

 

 

 

 

did you see it? did you see me?

 

 

 

 

static and sound static and sound static and sound and emptiness, steel wool inside his skull scraping away every last clear thought and conscious sound and then scraping away his brain for good measure scooping out the grey matter and unspooling everything leftover until it can be tossed down the garbage disposal so he can wait for something else to fill it up again to give meaning to the mess in his head and pretend it matters pretend it matters pretend it matters please don’t let it be me again brian please don’t treat it like me it isn’t me it isn’t me it isn’t me is it here? is it here? is it here? are you here? did you see it? still coughing still coughing choking can’t breathe dark. dark. dark. dark.

 

 

 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

Tim tries to focus on breathing, the inhale and exhale a pattern that guides him along through the tightness in his chest. His lips are parted. He can feel where drool dried on his cheek on the way from his mouth to the linoleum beneath him—but under his head feels like a folded shirt, something soft and old that he recognizes as one of Brian’s sleep shirts. The static still remains in his ears, the sound of the television in the background still going, but the show’s changed. Movie’s over.

“Hi, is this Tim Wright’s boss?”

Brian’s voice cuts through the dark and the static and Tim blinks his eyes open slowly, breathing in and out as he struggles to make them focus. He sees the bare feet of his partner, legs crossed and one hand in his lap, the other holding a phone to his ear. Mostly shapes and colors and visual snow as he tries to find the energy to lift his hand and wipe his eyes, but the sound comes through clearly.

“This is Brian Thomas, I’m his roommate. Yeah, I found your number in his phone.”

Figures that Brian would be able to crack the lock code without even trying. Tim closes his eyes again.

“He’s not feeling great, actually. That’s why I’m calling, he won’t be able to make it to work tomorrow. I’m guessing he’ll be back to a hundred percent the day after tomorrow, though, it shouldn’t be too bad. Food poisoning from lunch, I think? Yeah. Yeah. I’ll let him know when he’s up again. Sure thing. Thanks.”

The sound of the phone against the floor makes Tim open his eyes again, and he sees Brian move nearer to him very gently, on hands and knees. A hand reaches out to go through his hair and Tim sighs through parted lips as he looks up, Brian’s hands on either side of his head as the folded shirt is pushed away and Brian’s lap becomes the pillow instead. Gentle fingers brush his hair out of his face, a sleeve over the heel of a palm wiping away the drool.

“Still with me, Tim?” comes the gentle phrase in Brian’s voice, and Tim breathes deep to try and find the answer.

“I’m still here.” He says, and he bares his teeth for him anyway because his speech is slurred and he feels drowsy, too tired, like he’s been drugged or his bones have been replaced by concrete and the only place he’d be able to be is right where he belongs, on the linoleum on the kitchen floor. Brian’s fingers running through his hair is calming, soothing, and he closes his eyes again to lean into the touch. He’s surprised not to feel fingers in his mouth.

“You scared me.” There is no reprimand, no anger or harshness, just that same gentle voice to match the touch, and Tim feels his body beginning to relax. The tension is oozing out of him. He pictures it making a mess on the floor.

“Sorry.” The syllables are an exhale and he opens his eyes again to look up at Brian leaning over him. “I don’t mean to.”

A thumb presses into his cheekbone, pulls the skin of his eyelid down to look at his eyes, and Tim doesn’t bother trying to protest or push him away. He doesn’t feel like he has the energy to, all things considered, and it’s a tragedy enough that the bed he wants to go and sleep in now is too far away for him to reasonably walk to. Brian wouldn’t appreciate the attempt at crawling either, he guesses. He’s rather content to remain where he is regardless, with his head in Brian’s lap and those gentle hands on either side of his head, holding his face towards the sky.

“I thought the meds were supposed to keep that from happening.” Now is the concern, the tinge of fear.

“Doesn’t always work.” He’s starting to feel slightly more awake, but he’s against it in the first place; he’d like to curl up in a blanket and go to sleep right here, with his head in Brian’s lap and the heaviness in his body keeping him down. He feels exhausted. The pay-off of running a marathon without the health benefits, or… something. He had creative ways to describe it before in the past, and he’s mostly sure he’ll have another one again eventually, but not right now. “S’why I had the fall risk band.”

“Guess we should get you another one.” Brian’s tone is terse, so the humor falls flat. “Think you can take them now?”

“If you help me, maybe.”

“Stay put, then.” He says, like Tim’s about to just pick himself up and run off. Brian is gentle and cautious about laying his head back down on the floor, pulling the shirt back to put underneath his skull, and Tim already wishes he hadn’t gone anywhere. He follows the sound of Brian’s footsteps as he lays still, listening to bare feet on linoleum transition to steps on the carpet in the hallway and the thing lurking in the corner of the living room threatens to take a few steps closer when he’s alone.

He takes a deep breath in and out again, nestling his face into Brian’s folded shirt and closing his eyes. It smells more like laundry detergent and the floor of the apartment than it does his partner, but the softness is grounding, and he knows Brian will be back soon enough.

Tim doesn’t have the time to doze off before Brian comes back, stepping gingerly around him towards the fridge to get one of the refilled water bottles that’s still cold. There’s a slight sound of a wince as Brian sits on the floor again, and Tim’s reflex is to apologize for making him go up and down so many times when his back is still bothering him, but he knows there’s no real point to it. Brian sets the pill bottle and the water bottle down and makes to help Tim up again, half-dragging half-pulling him into a sitting position. Tim ends up halfway in Brian’s lap, his back to his chest, Brian’s arm around his waist. A part of it feels like he’s being held there, like Brian’s gripping onto him tight to keep him where he is, and. He supposes he can’t blame him that, considering his history and bad habit of ending up in the woods at night.

Brian helps his posture, and Tim sits up as straight as he can when his body feels like it’s made from lead, letting Brian open the water bottle for him after he’s opened the pills and handed them over. The medicine is as hard to take as it ever is, catching in his throat and making the swallow slightly painful.

In this positioning, Tim can look towards the clock: 8:45pm. He guesses dinner’s ruined by now, either on the floor or in the garbage, but he’s not feeling particularly hungry anyway.

“You’re alright?” Brian’s voice is gentle against his ear, and Tim closes his eyes, letting himself lean back against Brian for a moment as he gathers himself up again, breathing deep to the sound of the cap being replaced on the pills and the water.

“I’m fine.” Tim replies, and means it. “Are you?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“When did you get to be such a good liar?”

Brian does not answer.

\---

One. _Thud._

Two. _Thud._

Three. _Thud._

Four. _Thud._

It’s the same rhythmic lullaby that he’s familiar with, call and response that Tim thinks he does in his sleep because he knows Brian doesn’t stop making noise just because he’s not awake to hear it. It’s either one or one hundred and one or one thousand and one or one hundred thousand and one and Tim only keeps the count nightly, so he well and truly couldn’t be sure exactly where they are by now.

The moonlight through his blinds drifts onto the blanket around his hips and Tim presses the palm of his hand to the wall to feel rather than hear the sound again, and prove it exists outside of him, and be sure Brian’s not calling for help without really wanting to be helped again.

Ten. _Thud._

Eleven. _Thud._

Twelve. _Thud._

Thirteen. _Thud._

He wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep. He’d been having a nice dream, too, about some shitty student film where he had more fun doing the music than acting, about having friends and being comfortable and warm around a bonfire instead of having a breakdown in the parking lot, about a gap-toothed smile and a brown hat and a blue and black striped jacket. He wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

Eighteen. _Thud._

Nineteen. _Thud._

Twenty. _Thud._

Twenty-one. _Thud._

It’s automatic for him to push himself up into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting on the edge of the mattress. The clock tells him it’s too early to get up, but he ignores it as he stands, feeling his back and his knees pop uncomfortably as he reaches down to pick up the blanket from his bed.

It was a nice dream, and he misses it. He misses when he wasn’t scared of sharp teeth or a long tongue, an empty face or a perpetual frown. He misses sitting on the couch, curled up together with the window open and a cool breeze floating by, bringing the sweet scent of the neighbor’s flowers. He misses going over lines and poking fun at how silly they were, misses fucking around with a camera and dirty jokes about what they could do with it, if the mood struck.

He wants to lay back down, close his eyes, and go to sleep.

It’s not enough, though, and he stops counting as he steps quietly towards the door to the hallway.

Tim leaves his bedroom door open, listening to the sound of Brian’s knocking against the wall, something that sounds distant and faraway even when the only thing in the way between them is the bedroom door. The lights are off in the hallway and the bathroom, leaving him in the darkness as he steps over and presses the palm of his hand against the door. The push-pin is left in the carpet here, somewhere, and one of these nights he’s going to step on it.

He imagines opening the door. The gesture’s easy enough. He misses having a face tucked into the crook of his neck and arms wrapped around him and he misses how things used to be, back then, as he puts his forehead gently against the wood of the door, breathes in deep and holds it.

He exhales.

He stopped counting. How many is it now? Two, twenty, two hundred. Two thousand.

He imagines opening the door, and so Tim pushes himself to, knowing that Brian is still awake, because he’s not sleeping well because Tim’s not sleeping well. The moonlight falls over the man in the bed well, illuminating the fuzz of the blankets and reflecting off still-altered eyes. Brian doesn’t say anything, but the thudding sound stops, and Tim wraps the blanket he brought around himself like a cape as he approaches.

He was having a nice dream. He wants to lay back down, close his eyes, and go to sleep.

“You okay?”

There is a pause of silence between them and Tim thinks Brian’s not going to answer. He does, though, eventually, with a shaky exhale and the sound that tells him he’s trying to keep himself in one piece.

“No.”

Tim understands. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he never could, because if he couldn’t understand the problem then Brian wouldn’t understand it either, and they could be happy somewhere else. He pictures a comfortable house, a couple dogs. A couple rats. A room where he could play his music and learn how to sing again. Pictures plants on the windowsill, far away from the beach and from the forest, pictures bookcases, fills in titles of cryptography and psychology that he knew Brian read about just for fun, and desks lined with papers and novels and a backyard where they could lay in the grass, hand in hand, staring up at the night sky and talking until they fell asleep, like they used to.

But then maybe not understanding would mean he never knew Brian in the first place, and that feels like a knife in his chest.

Tim is quiet as he approaches the bed, kneeling to sit on the edge, and watching in the dark as Brian moves over enough to give him room. He doesn’t need to ask. They don’t need to talk. Masky and Hoody never had to, after all, so why should they ever try to?

He moves to lay down on the small mattress on the floor next to Brian, and feels the other man wrap his arms around his waist in response, puts his hands on the back of Brian’s head and feels his partner push his face into his chest. They fall into the position like they’ve done it before because Tim is so very certain they have done it before, and his fingers curl gently into Brian’s hair as he closes his eyes and feels nails dig into the small of his back.

“I’m here.” Tim murmurs, his voice catching in his throat. “I love you.”

He doesn’t expect Brian to reply. He feels him shift, feels a dampness against his shirt and feels his grip tighten that much more. He’d be alright with it, if Brian decided not to reply. He knows. He understands.

oh please trust me again

“I love you, too.” Brian’s whisper is inaudible enough for Tim to think he might have imagined it. He knows. He understands.

He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and tries to go back to sleep.


End file.
